


Looks Like Hell

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [8]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feels like it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looks Like Hell

Wednesday, December 22, 1999 (cont.)

Wrench slept horribly.

Normally, he has no problem sleeping soundly. Lights go out and his consciousness usually follows suit quickly enough, regardless of whatever heinous acts he may have taken part in while the sun kept watch. But today sleep has mostly managed to elude him, and as much as he’d like to blame his fitful slumber on the throbbing pain in his swollen and bruised left eye or his torn knuckles or even the sick smell of Lovera’s burning flesh that stuck with him, he knows that none of those things are what kept him tossing and turning for hours before he threw in the towel on the concept of sleep, entirely.

If Wrench thought it unpleasant to deal with what had happened with his partner immediately after the fight, it had only become increasingly difficult to cope with what was said and done as the hours ticked by. He slouches in the chair by the window, watching the sun recede past the horizon while replaying the scene over and over as if he were helplessly watching somebody else inside a suit of his skin, acting like an absolute prick—and not the way Numbers is a prick for being petty and short-tempered and acting utterly indifferent to him, either. This was different: he made a point to hurt Numbers and had succeeded. Through all of their disagreements and outright arguing since beginning this assignment, Numbers never so much as crossed a toe over the line that separated the high road from the low road.

And even when he eventually did step onto that road, he was only meeting Wrench there.

At around half past four Wrench’s tired body lurches from its seat and steps outside. The cold feels distant even as the wind whips against his tall, lean frame. He takes deep breaths of the crisp evening air through his nose in a vain attempt to cleanse his nostrils of the scent of scorched skin, yet the odor lingers, persistent and fresh to his senses as if it happened minutes and not hours ago. It’s no wonder Numbers had gotten sick, and he’s still unsure how he managed to not lose his dinner, himself. He sighs, and as his breath lingers in front of him a fresh bout of remorse over his response to Numbers becoming ill courses through him. He decides to return to the room to distract himself with a shower and shave, figuring that Numbers would be back soon, if he even came at all.

Fifteen minutes later, Wrench dresses and comes out of the bathroom to find Numbers sitting on the edge of (what used to be) his bed with his eyes cast towards the opposite wall, blankly fixed on the fist-shaped hole Wrench left in it. Wrench pauses, surveying the damage he dealt: the cut on Numbers’ lip manages to stand out spectacularly against the purple blotches that highlight the corner of his mouth in a half-halo before they disappear into the dark hair of his beard. The guy looks miserable and Wrench can’t blame him.

Wrench ruffles his towel through his wet hair, hastily cutting across the room to throw his clothing in his bag. Finally, he turns to his partner, though he’s unsure of what to say. He ultimately decides on nothing, figuring his words won’t matter much to Numbers, anyway; they certainly shouldn’t, given how spectacularly he wielded them earlier today.

After what feels like an eternity, Numbers’ hands move. _“Your eye looks like hell.”_

 _“Yeah,”_ Wrench knocks, awkwardly running a hand through his damp locks. _“Feels like it, too.”_

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Numbers starts after several uneasy moments, but he’s cut off by Wrench waving a hand at him.

 _“Don’t worry about it.”_ If anything, _he_ should be apologizing. But before he can bring his fist to his chest Numbers’ hands are moving again.

 _“No. Listen to me.”_ He stands and cautiously closes the space between him and Wrench. Moving his hands rigidly, steadfastly, he signs again, _“I’m sorry,”_ and follows that up with, _“I shouldn’t have said that to you. About your partner. Low blow. And I got a cheap shot in, to boot.”_ He holds Wrench’s stare before signing yet another _“Sorry.”_ Numbers had been thinking of what to say to Wrench when he finally got to his room, and he hates that this was the best he could come up with. As far as apologies go it’s lame and he knows it. This is more than he would normally offer, though, so he figures that this meager something is better than his usual nothing.

Wrench wonders if it’s easier for Numbers to sign an admission like that instead of speaking it out loud. The words might feel different, heavier and sour on his tongue. Despite that thought, he holds Numbers’ gaze and smiles sadly. _“You wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t go off on you.”_

Numbers shrugs, his eyes flitting to the dark droplets of his own blood on the carpet before he forces himself to look at Wrench again. _“What you said wasn’t wrong.”_

_“What happened on the lake could have happened to me, just as easily. I felt sick, too. I can still smell it. Bad idea to do that.”_

_“Yeah, my bad idea.”_

_“That I agreed to,”_ Wrench points out, shaking his head. _“We decided how to deal with that guy together. As partners. The consequences are mine just as much as they’re yours.”_

Numbers shakes his head too, his lips parting to allow a thick scoff to pass over them. _“I’ve never had a partner before,”_ he suddenly admits. Sure, he’s worked with other people, but that was years ago and his experiences doing shakedowns with two or three other guys doesn’t exactly compare to this. He feels like he’s nineteen and green all over again. Out of his element, stranded at sea without a life jacket to keep him afloat. _“Doing hits, I’ve only had to worry about myself. Never had to take into account how my decisions affected other people. If I fucked up a job it was my problem, my fault.”_

Wrench isn’t surprised by this admittance, truthfully. Numbers certainly acts like he’s never had a partner. All in all, he’s glad Numbers is finally being candid with him. _“I’m sorry, too,”_ he finally says. _“I was an asshole.”_

 _“Yeah. You were. Big time,”_ Numbers replies, managing to smile.

A grin flickers over Wrench’s face in return, but it quickly falters. _“I didn’t mean what I said,”_ he begins, earnestly looking into Numbers’ eyes. _“I want you to know that.”_

_“But you did mean it. At least you did, then.”_

_“I was just angry, for a lot of reasons. The lake. Breakfast. You not talking to me,”_ he sighs, his tongue poking between his lips as his head shakes again. _“Was disappointed in you. Wanted to hurt you because that’s what I do. Sometimes I can’t turn that part of me off and just be decent,”_ he confesses. Admitting this makes him feel small, like when he was a child.

 _“We’re not exactly standup guys, you know. We’re killers,”_ he says matter-of-factly, his shoulders lurching upwards again. _“It’s what we do.”_

 _“Doesn’t mean I can’t be good to the people that are supposed to matter,”_ Wrench states, looking unusually abashed. At Numbers’ confused look, he elaborates. _“Partners,”_ he insists, following up that sign by pointing very firmly to Numbers. _“That means you matter.”_

That’s a bit hokey for Numbers’ taste, but that doesn’t stop him from appreciating Wrench’s opinion. Though it hurts like a son of a bitch he grins, widely this time, his stretching lip tugging dangerously at the scab.

Wrench extends his hand to Numbers, who clasps it in his own. Their partnership might be a work in progress, barely off the ground, but there’s a silent understanding between the two men that if they can somehow manage to make it through this assignment without crashing and burning, they’ll be able to navigate through any storm ahead of them.

Numbers claps Wrench on the shoulder when they break apart, feeling more rejuvenated than he has in days despite his own sleeping troubles. _“Ready to go?”_

Wrench nods. _“You’re driving,”_ he says, pointing to his inflamed eye.

 _“You’re gonna milk this, aren’t you?”_ Numbers asks, watching Wrench heave his duffel bag onto his shoulder. If he didn’t regret punching his partner in the eye before, he certainly did now.

 _“Good thing you’re not very strong. Otherwise I’d be deaf **and** blind.” _ There’s a twinkle in Wrench’s good eye as he looks down to his partner.

 _“Shut up,”_ Numbers replies, the hand in front of his mouth hiding his warm smile. Duluth might be ten hours away, but for once Numbers doesn’t mind the long drive. He knows he’s in good company.


End file.
